


pray for rain

by okayantigone



Series: where all my children can become me [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Child Loss, Drabble Length Chapters, F/M, Flash Fiction, Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intersex, M/M, Mental Instability, Miscarriage, Stillbirth, Torture, implied csa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/pseuds/okayantigone
Summary: "alright," says jiraiya, stepping from one foot to the other. he looks anywhere but at his teammate. "okay. alright." he swallows hard, and when he speaks again, his voice is rough with something foreign."who's the father?"orochimaru hisses sharply, his eyes narrowing, sallow skin tinged in blotchy pink with fury, and beneath that, something else. his thin bloodless lips pull over his teeth. "some nameless iwa interrogator," he snarls, and jiraiya steps back, his eyes widening comically."oh."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hongmunmu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/gifts).
  * Inspired by [We bid him a tender goodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13744305) by [hongmunmu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu). 



> this story only exists because of hongmunmu's art, and blackkat's fics. it will be told in small drabble-like installments, whenever i have the energy to work on it. 
> 
> also, i am INCREDIBLY a lot inspired by hongmunmu's We Bid Him A Tender Goodbye, mostly because I love torture fics, and this is my take on an orochimaru torture fic. 
> 
> all the awful things will happen off screem, mostly bc i don't have the stomach presently, to write it.

it’s been four weeks to the day since the disaster that was the iwa mission, and despite jiraiya’s best efforts, for some inexplicable reason, sarutobi-sensei is in no rush to send a rescue cell out, even though orochimaru is – 

he doesn’t want to think about what orochimaru is, or isn’t doing in an iwa torture cell as they speak. and they know where he is, because the tsuchikage had offered a prisoner exchange, a prisoner exchange that for some reason the council was dallying on accepting, and jiraiya had half a mind to leap over the konoha wall, and rain destruction all down his path, leaving a trail of scorched fields in his way to his teammate. he may be the most agreeable of his brilliant genius teammates – he certainly doesn’t have tsunade’s quick temper, or orochimaru’s blatant disregard for human life, but people know his name for a reason. 

maybe tsunade will be along for the ride too, if he can drag her out of a bar long enough for her to be of any use. after all, as far as she’s concerned, orochimaru deserves this. as far as orochimaru himself is concerned, he probably deserves it. the blow of nawaki’s death had left him duller. going back to the frontline was the only way he could live with himself after the colossal failure of his short stint as the new team seven’s sensei. or something. 

he probably thought about it in different terms. probably thought he was being all cold and clinical and unemotional. jiraiya wanted to give him a piece of his mind. wanted him back in konoha, safe. 

“they probably won’t torture him,” sensei had said. “not if they want a swift ceasefire anyhow. and if they do, he probably won’t break.” 

jiraiya wanted to say he didn’t give a shit if orochimaru ratted out every single konoha shelter, and medical supply route, if it meant being spared what they did to people in iwa torture cells. it wouldn’t be true, and it would have him executed for treason on the spot. 

he listens with a bowed head while sarutobi-sensei talks, clenching and unclenching his fists. he wants orochimaru back. he wants his team back together. that’s all.


	2. Chapter 2

“he doesn’t want to see you,” tsunade says flatly. she’s sober for once, maybe for the first time since nawaki’s death, and the lines of her face are harsh, brought too a keen sharpness by wartime hunger, and her honey glaze eyes aren’t warm at all. 

“but why,” jiraiya doesn’t want to admit he is whining. 

“he doesn’t want you to see him,” tsunade amends, and her voice gains a harder edge to it. something not quite on this side of angry, but close. almost there. 

jiraiya is too taken aback to retort. “he is asking you,” tsunade stresses, “to give him his space.” 

“kami,” jiraiya feels like someone’s blown all the air out of his lungs. “what did they do to him?” 

“he’s fine,” tsunade says. “physically, he’s fine. or he will be.” she isn’t looking at him. her gaze is vaguely focused on the village, her steady hands clasped over the railing. orochimaru’s house is in the older districts. heart of the village. he doesn’t have hot water, or electricity after the latest barrage, but his home is standing. only he isn’t standing in it. 

“they sheared off his hair,” she says, still deliberately not looking at jiraiya, her eye dancing over orochimaru’s garden of poisons. 

jiraiya can’t help the sound in his throat. his hair is one of the few vanities orochimaru allows himself. had allowed himself. 

“yeah,” tsunade says. “pulled out a few teeth too, but – “ 

“it’s not why he doesn’t want me to see him.” jiraiya finishes. he knows she is only telling him these things to quench some of the curiosity that had him staking out his teammate’s home – a useless feat, since apparently he’d been in the senju compound this whole time. it was only by accident that he even ran into tsunade here. she was picking up something for him. poisons? scrolls? clothes? 

it doesn’t matter. 

orochimaru doesn’t want to see, or be seen by jiraiya. 

“tell him i worry,” he says, quietly. in the dusk that’s settling over the garden, fireflies are emerging, glittering lovelights that drape themselves over the blooming oleander. 

“he knows.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the horrorshow that is orochimaru's return from the iwa mission.   
> torture aftermath like whoa

orochimaru sleeps on the floor. when he’d still been weak and drugged up to seventh heaven, he’d been alright in the big bed in one of the many unused rooms, and it was easier for tsunade too. he was a better patient than jiraiya, certainly, since he seemed not to mind complying with her orders, but he slept on the floor. the bed was too soft, he said. he felt like he was drowning in it, he said. she convinced him to at least let her set a futon up, and pile it with pillows and blankets, and then she’d dragged a space heater in. like his favored summons, he always ran a little cold.

 

mostly, he doesn’t speak to her at all. he contents himself with scrolls from her grandfather’s library, and tea that is all too bitter, and that she cannot be certain doesn’t contain traces of poison, as he tries to build his tolerance back up. and not just his.

 

he’d crawled into her home like a figure out of a horror legend, splattered in blood and mud, missing more than half his teeth, his mouth twisted in the parody of a smile, his nails gone, and his hair scorched and chopped off. he’d crawled through her (dan’s) apartment, dwon the hallway, dragging his useless left leg.   
  
“ _tsunade,”_ he’d hissed her name. “ _tsunade – heal me –_ “

 

then he’d passed out.

 

that whisper would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her life. she’d definitely screamed. and once she’d let one scream out, she hadn’t been able to stop, hysterical, and half-convinced it was a genjutsu.

 

dan had woken up, shooting in bed beside her, a kunai in his hand. he’d kept his cool. he’d turned the light on, helped her lay orochimaru down properly, and cut his filthy clothes away ( _rough prisoner garb, unsuited to orochimaru, with his love of bright, delicate fabrics_ ), and when he was sure she had a grip on it, and wasn’t going to lose it again, he’d shunshined to the hokage’s office.

 

by the time the sandaime, and half the t&i department filtered through dan’s bedroom door (and honestly, shinobi had no sense of privacy), orochimaru was awake, his golden eyes sharp and awake with a cruel madness she only knew of him in battle.

 

he’d gripped her arms with his barely straightened out broken fingers, “don’t let them hurt the baby – don’t let them hurt the baby.”

 

she’d looked down at his stomach, and her blood had run cold.

 

“orochimaru-kun,” hiruzen had said, kindly, “we are going to have to ask you a few questions about the extent of your … stay … in iwa.” he’d kneeled on the floor beside his student, his robes arranged around him effortlessly – that’s where orochimaru had picked the skill from.

 

he’d reached, to lay a fatherly hand on orochimaru’s arm. tsunade had ammased enough nightmare fodder for a lifetime, that night. she hadn’t even thought that such a noise could come out of orochimaru’s abused throat, but he’d screamed. no, he’d _howled_.

 

“don’t touch me! don’t touch me, don’t touchmedonttouchmedonttouchme!”

 

he’d screamed until sarutobi had ushered most everyone save for the yamanaka expert out of the room.

 

“don’t hurt my baby. and don’t let them touch me,” he’d been looking intently into her eyes, but she wasn’t even sure he could see her.

 

“sure, maru,” she’d promised. “i won’t.”

 

then the yamanaka had hijacked his body, rifling through his memories for proof that he had betrayed konoha. she looked slightly green when she came to, and shook her head at sarutobi.

 

“he didn’t break.”

 

he had smiled. “ah, that’s good. orochimaru-kun always was particularly resitatnt to pain.” he had stood up, and straightened his robes out. then, in a blink, he’d been behind the women, slitting her throat.

 

“whatever,” he had said, voice no less kind than it had been moments ago, “happened to orochimaru-kun in iwa… i don’t believe it is wise to make it common knowledge. don’t you, tsunade-chan?”

 

she’d stared into her sensei’s eyes, unwilling to admit she’d been poised to do the same, and grateful nonetheless. ~~~~


	4. Chapter 4

 

“i am keeping it,” orochimaru says quietly.

 

his head is turned to the side, refusing to face sarutobi. the sharp starved lines of his face are even more stark now, with all his silky cascading hair sheared off. tsunade has clearly taken the time to help manage the damage, so that what had been uneven ugly tuffs and bloody matted locks is now smoothly and evenly cropped, and pinned back elegantly with a set of what sarutobi recognizes to be mito’s own hairpins that tsunade must have dragged out of some heirloom box.

 

the graceful cut of orochimaru’s cheekbone and jawline is distorted by the alcohol soaked cotton shoved in his mouth, pressing into the prosthetics that fill out the places of his missing teeth.

 

he is leaning against the windowsill, looking out into one of the many inner courtyards of the senju park and residence. tsunade had insisted he be moved there – partially out of consideration for dan’s privacy – who had taken the small-scale home invasion in impressive stride, but also for orochimaru’s own sake.

 

his arms are wrapped protectively around his middle, pale graceful hands clutching at his sides, crooked fingers digging into the silk of his kimono.

 

“orochimaru-kun – “   
  
“this is not a matter of discussion, sensei,” his voice is a soft venomous whisper. “it is _my_ baby, it is inside _my_ body, and i am going to keep it.”

 

“be reasonable, orochimaru. the father is a foreigner – an iwa intelligence officer. think on how that will reflect on you, on your record – “

 

“the father had a kekkei genkai,” orochimaru still hasn’t turned his face towards his sensei, focusing hard on the fascinating scenery of hashirama’s favorite gardens.  his voice is flat and emotionless.   
  
that gives sarutobi pause. he waits for orochimaru to continue.

 

“lava release. it’s what he used to burn me.”

 

“orochimaru that is – “

 

“the sandaime tsuchikage’s ability, i know. and over time, my child may bring it to konoha as well. i am keeping the baby. do you understand?”

 

sarutobi’s eyes linger on his favorite student’s knuckles, turned bone white with how hard he is digging his fingers into his side. he knows orochimaru isn’t lying. not about something like this.

 

“very well,” he says finally. “you may keep the child. maru – “

 

“yes?”

 

finally, the boy turns to him. his face is sallow. but there are no scars marring the smooth pale skin – tsunade had done a lovely job of healing him to perfection. there is a hatred in his eyes so vicious it makes sarutobi fear – only for a moment.

“they will rake your name through the mud,” he says softly. some things, even the hokage can’t protect him from.

“my name’s been through enough already, old man. don’t pretend you care now. i can take it.”

he turns to the window again, and draws himself straighter, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“i’ll speak with the council,” he says finally. “as far as anyone else is concerned you were on an extenced diplomatic mission in rice country, and have not returned yet. we’ll keep that ruse going as long as we can, but jiraiya – “

“i don’t want to see him, sensei. it’s too soon.”

“i’ll let him know.”

he wants to reach out. it had been so easier before – to brush maru’s hair out of his face, and rest a hand on his shoulder affectionately. he fears, should he try such comforts now, he might be stabbed for his efforts.

 

“thank you, sensei.”

 

his voice is hollow and exhausted. sarutobi takes the dismissal for what he is. he turns around, as he walks out of the room. orochimaru has picked his needles back up. he is making baby socks.


	5. Chapter 5

orochimaru won’t see him, and jiraiya, unwilling as he is, must concede. it’s good for the village to see their two active duty sannin out and about. he does what he does best, sneaking around and killing, wiping the blood on his hands over the hair of prostitutes, leaving his war-poisoned money on their dressers. 

tsunade spends her days shrieking herself hoarse at the council, desperately pushing for the implementation of medical corps, and spends her nights drinking in dan’s flat. 

orochimaru is not getting better. his hair is growing back, slowly, returning some of its previous shine, and the prosthetics in his mouth are barely recognizable as fakes. he brews spider oils and snake powders. 

“my clan summons manda,” he says, gently rebuffing her worries, resting one pale elegant hand over the now prominent swell in his stomach, “we have poison blood. it’s how we are born.” there is a glint of amusement in his eyes, parroting as he does, the village’s whispers about him. 

he still sleeps on the futon on the floor, with kusanagi in her sheath laying beside him, and he clings to his sword like one does to a lover. 

she had gone into his house to bring him his mother’s old silks – unfurling heavy embroidered fabric, a testament to the wealth their family had once possessed. orochimaru, like her, had not grown up starving and neglected. now, draped in a many layered ivory kimono patterned with golden serpents, his hair twisted up and held atop his head with poisoned senbon, he looks otherworldly and lovely in a way she can’t begin to fathom. 

his unique androgyny had been their asset on missions, when she had been younger, too prideful still, to do what needed to be done, while he took the honeypots with the same grim methodological determination as any other mission. 

she had wanted to ask, sometimes, if he had been a virgin then, the first time – he must have been, barely old enough to not be considered a child anymore, terrifying and blood thirsty by the standards of a village who only praised his intellect in so far as it got them on the battle field. 

the first time he had undressed fully in front of them, she had tried not to stare.

“it is common, in my clan,” he had said in his soft whispering voice. “to bear the characteristics of male and female.” 

jiraiya for once had been at loss of words.

she walks through the darkened empty halls of the senju compound, the heels of her shoes echoing steps off of the walls. orochimaru stands over the table in the kitchen, one arm wrapped around his stomach, as has become his habbit, his other hand holding his intricately carved pipe between shaking fingers. the shards of a broken cup are at his feet, the floor and counter dripping with cooling poppy tea. he brings the pipe to his thin bloodless lips, breathing in the opium, and when he looks at her, his eyes are red-rimmed, the kohl liner running down his pale, still hollowed out from the starvation he and his child had barely survived in the prison. 

“oh, maru,” she drops the groceries on the table, and rushes to his side, helping him into one of the chairs, and hurrying to clean up. he hates messes, and he hates loud noise now more than ever. “what happened? did you have nightmares again?” 

he grits his new teeth and nods, his hair falling into his eyes messily. 

“i tried to make my sleeping tea,” he says quietly. “i thought it might sate me, and if i sleep a while, i would have the energy for a turn around the garden, you know it’s- “ he takes a deep shuddering breath, and another pull from the pipe, filling the space with the sweet smoke of his exhale. “it’s good for the baby, and so.” 

“and so?” she prompts tenderly. she brushes the hair out of his face, and runs her thumb over his cheek gently, to remove the smudges. now that he is in confinement, he has taken to clinging on his small vanities. 

he shakes his head, and there’s exhaustion and frustration in every line of his body. 

“i had a hand cramp again,” he snarls. “i couldn’ – it hurt so much, i couldn’t grip the – tsunade, you know i’m not making it up, right? the pain, you know i’m not, it just – “ 

“i know,” she interrupts firmly. she takes his free hand between hers, and starts kneading gently. as soon as his arm is no longer in front of his stomach, for just a moment, she can see the wild panic flashing in his golden eyes, as he stiffens, curling in on himself in the chair, his shoulders slouching. “i know, maru. i promise you, it will go away.” 

she channels chakrs into the bones and sinews, trying to ease some of his anxiety. he is a ninjutsu specialist, and a maker of poisons. his hands are his one weapon. 

“you know i can’t lose the use of my hands,” he whispers. there is real fear in his voice, and something naked on his face she never wants to see there again. he hadn’t broken under torture, but, now, more and more, all she sees when she looks at him – the most dangerous killer she had ever met – is just a frightened young mother. 

“you won’t,” she reassures, and brings his knuckles to her lips for a sweet little kiss. “i have healed you, and i will continue to heal you. now put the pipe down. you know i’m only letting you do this for your pain, but don’t carried away. it still isn’t good for the baby. do you still want to take a walk?” 

he nods, straightening himself up, and suddenly, the terrified hurt creature is gone, disappearing into her beautiful dangerous orochimaru, the one she knows, and loves and trusts. 

the walk slow circles around hashirama’s courtyard under the moonlight, both of them perfectly silent and content.


	6. Chapter 6

his hair has grown past his shoulders, and the gentle swell in his stomach is more prominent now. if he is in pain, he does not voice it. 

he sits in the garden, under the thick shade of the trees, rubs circles on his belly and hums lullabies. he’s laid off the pipe and the snake oils too, in favor of the bitterest teas imaginable, and his skin is no longer sallow. he seems – happy. 

“he may come see me,” he says, when she drops the stack of hospital-related paperwork to the kitchen table. dan is on long assignment, so she’s around the house more. 

“he’s on a mission,” she says, not bothering to specify who he is talking about. 

“when he returns,” orochimaru clarifies. he has cooked for them, applying his skill with poison to meticulous mixing of spices. tsunade hasn’t eaten since the morning, and she joins him at the table. 

“you are sure?” she asks. orochimaru’s staunch refusal to see jiraiya had been her constant companion for months. it made little difference – he would not leave the senju compound while his confinement lasted. superstition in his clan dictated it – people who laid eyes on him and the baby before it was born could wish it harm. anyone not from the family could not be trusted, and he had no family anymore, and so – 

“i’m sure,” orochimaru says, and then, as an afterthought, deliberately casual, drops the words “i miss him,” sweet and sincere. 

she accosts jiraiya at the village gates, road-worn and blood-splattered. “you can do your report at my house,” as she strongarms him into following her. it is not an unfamiliar sight to see the two of them like this, so no one pays them any heed. 

“does that mean he – “ 

“his hair grew back,” she sneers, but she isn’t sure why the thought upsets her so. 

orochimaru is curled in the windowsill, his knitting needles dancing with a sweet rhythm. she knows he has heard them, though he doesn’t turn at first. 

“maru,” jiraiya says, soft and uncertain, and takes a step into the room. 

it bids his teammate to turn and stand up, setting his basket of yarn down, and then he is suddenly in front of jiraiya, beautiful and cold, long dark tresses framing his handsome painted face, a heavy silk kimono in a devastatingly bright shade of violet draped over his slender frame and then jiraiya’s eyes take in the prominent swell of his stomach, and realization slots into place, and as surprise lines his eyes, orochimaru wraps protective arms over his middle. 

sure, the knowledge had been there since the first time orochimaru undressed with them. that he could. potentially, at some point. maybe. but the reality had touble settling in with that knowledge, that he was. 

"alright," says jiraiya, stepping from one foot to the other. he looks anywhere but at his teammate. "okay. alright." he swallows hard, and when he speaks again, his voice is rough with something foreign.

"who's the father?"

orochimaru hisses sharply, his eyes narrowing, sallow skin tinged in blotchy pink with fury, and beneath that, something else. his thin bloodless lips pull over his teeth. "some nameless iwa interrogator," he snarls, and jiraiya steps back, his eyes widening comically.

"oh."

“yeah,” says orochimaru tonelessly, and sits back down on the windowsill. “oh.” he mocks. 

jiraiya shakes his head, blinks emphatically. “is that why you’re not leaving here?” he asks finally. 

“yes.” still terse, lined with tension. 

“maru – “ 

“you know what they’ll say about me when it’s born,” orochimaru says quietly. 

“and you thought – “ jiraiya pauses, looking for words. he wishes he had been prepared for this. it always comes easier to him in writing. “you know i would never – “ 

“not you,” orochimaru allows, and some hidden tension leaves his shoulders. he breathes. “but they will – it will be bad enough when i have a child on my hip, worse yet if they see me carrying it, and i can’t – “ 

his voice breaks dangerously. it’s all too fresh, and too near the surface, even though his hands don’t cramp anymore. 

jiraiya crosses the room in a few long strides and at once draws orochimaru into his arms, enveloping him in his warmth. tsunade braces herself for the screaming to start as it always does when someone besides her approaches him to touch, but there is nothing. he leans into jiraiya, uncaring that his filth will damage his beautiful silks. 

jiraiya’s large warm palms settle on his back. 

“i won’t let them,” jiraiya says seriously. there is an earnestness in his eyes, a genuinity he never lost despite all they do, despite all the lying and the spying and the things they make him do, despite the – 

“you can’t stop them,” orochimaru pulls away, recovered from his weakness, and straightens out his silks. “i can take it. they talk enough about me, i will take it. i just wish the child – well. no matter. to be a bastard and an orphan in konoha – i could take it. so could you –“ 

“no,” jiraiya repeats more forcefully. “i won’t let them. i will – “ he pauses, gathering his thoughts, and takes orochimaru’s cold delicate hands in his. “i’ll claim it,” he says resolutely. 

orochimaru practically collapses in his seat, his gold eyes flaring wide with shock he doesn’t bother disguising. “what.” 

it comes out flat, and jiraiya steamrolls through him. “i’ll say it’s mine. everyone knows i’m a whore, they’ll easily believe it – we celebrated when you returned from your mission, sake was involved. maru – we are the sannin – do you think they will question my claim?” 

god. 

“i was a bastard,” jiraiya says. “and an orphan. and this village damn near ate me alive. and you too, after your parents - and your clan was old too, and – “ he shakes his head. “i’ll claim it. i’ll raise it with you. or i won’t – however you like.” 

“what if it doesn’t look like either one of us?” orochimaru asks finally, and his voice is barely a whisper. 

“no one knows my family,” jiraiya says. “no one knows where i come from. my skin’s dark enough that it might as well be iwa. i wouldn’t know. could look like someone from my family.” 

orochimaru nods, dazed. 

“you don’t have to do this alone.” jiraiya says. 

orochimaru cannot bear the sweetness. he buries his face in jiraiya’s neck and finally cries.


	7. Chapter 7

he sleeps most peacefully with his head pillowed on jiraiya’s broat chest. jiraiya runs hot where orochimaru is cold, and his arms, with their rough dry palms fit perfectly over his shoulders, steadying his back, rubbing circles over the skin of his stomach stretched taut over the sbulge of his stomach, drawn in patterns with the blue ink of his veins, now more prominent than before. 

the stretch marks that mar the skin over his narrow hips look like fresh scars. 

his breasts have swollen slightly, his flat chest now swelling sweetly under the silk of his formal kimonos. his hair is luscious and rich once again, and his eyes are less haunted, their slanted pupils bright in the ring of gold, and full of smiles. 

he’s been craving eggs. he hates eggs, but clearly, his progeny has other ideas, so eggs he eats, chicken, and when there’s shortages, dove. jiraiya brought pheasant eggs from a mission, and it brought him to near tears. 

if before, often, he wondered if he was even human, with the seemingly bottomless emptiness that clogged his heart when the grief of his parents swept it away like the wind swept autumn leaves over their graves, now he seems capable of experiencing the full spectrum of the human emotion his anbu training shuns within the span of a half hour. 

but his hand no longer shakes, and jiraiya kisses his forehead and cheeks tenderly, and holds him like a lover, and he no longer aches, no longer flinches, those warm palms, callused after the shape of a kunai handle have erased the touch that spread him open and crawled inside him, dirtying him. 

the child that grows inside him has been purified by the sheer force of jiraiya’s genteleness and love, and orochimaru too has emerged from it changed. 

if tsunade were to suggest even briefly that he was glowing he would vivisect her. 

but in the morning, he dips his brush in the purple paint to swipe a line over his lids, and he can see it too on his own face. he has grown plump and sated, like a nesting snake. when jiraiya is away, he sleeps with one of his summons curled on his chest, and his fingers wrapped around kusanagi’s sheath. 

his knitting needles are just glorified senbon, but he makes blankets, and baby socks, and baby hats in pleasing neutral shades that will suit a child of any gender. absurdly, he hopes against hope his child is a boy, spared the awkwardness of sharing his same physiology, the humiliation he has endured to bring it into the world. 

he reads his mother’s old books, and eats plums for breakfast every day, so it will come true. he looks through iwa tradition too, though reading the pathetically few scrolls from the library makes bile rise in his throat, and he pins a blue bead to the inside of his robes every day. 

he craves raw meat, so jiraiya trades his finest travel cloak for permission to hunt on nara grounds, and brings him the heart of a white hare. 

his mother’s carefully penned notes say that’s normal. their clan is reptilian, still. contractors of the snakes – the blood will make the new life inside him strong. 

orochimaru has always enjoyed blood, a little too much perhaps, but there was war everywhere around him, and food was scant, and if he’d had to brawl to bring his mother bread in those brutal final years, then… he had to. 

jiraiya doesn’t smell like blood. he is keenly aware of orochimaru’s sense of smell, and he comes to the compound freshly bathed, so that orochimaru won’t be roused to vomiting. 

“we should name the child after your parents,” he says one evening, his large hands gently cupping orochimaru’s stomach. “i don’t know mine’s names. but you have a legacy. you can give it to them.” 

he talks about the child like it’s truly his son. a natural child. he talks about their life together like they are lovers. there’s embers still left in his heart, warm with the kind of love for tsunade that he will never forget, but he is too kind too kind, too good by far, to taint their story, their dream. 

orochimaru curls up on the futon, under the heavy duvet that keeps him warm even in the coldest night. 

“won’t you come to sleep?” he asks. 

the child is strong. he is tired often. 

jiraiya casts on him a smile like the light of the lamp at his side. “not yet. i’ writing.” 

“oh? what about?” 

his eyes are too heavy, so he lets them fall shut, but jiraiya’s voice, more than his kisses, steels his heart into a cast iron love. 

“fairytailes.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes stillbirth - please beware.

he is tired often as his belly swells. his breasts are tender, painful to the touch. his hips grow scarred with stretch marks. 

he doesn’t have the strength to leave bed for long – sleep weighs heavy on him, and he seeks the heat of the house, and tsunade’s blast heater plugged into the wall. he can’t bear to be clothed, his skin too taut and uncomfortable. he imagines himself a snake, like his summons, shedding out the flesh that that man took for his own, and emerging as a mother. 

he curls up naked in the pile of blankets on the futon, and sleeps listlessly. tsunade feeds him warm broths, and tea she must have smuggled in from a mission, because it bears the distinct grassy taste of iwa – he has craved it, ever since their mission. he had dreamt of it in captivity. now she has brought him a whole tin. 

jiraiya has been on a mission two weeks now, and he is listless, and unable to do much about his restlesslness. he sings to the child absent-mindedly, staring out the window into lord hashirama’s gardens as the sky outside darkens, one hand gently petting along the flat glimmering length of kusanagi. 

soon the child will come – he hopes jiraiya will be present for the birth. it will be nice, he thinks, to have him there. his oldest friend, his oldest love. not a lover – he and jiraiya are not that – truthfully, he doesn’t think he will be able to handle it, if it were to happen. but still, the father of his child in all but blood. 

he drags himself into bed, slow lilting steps, his long hair clinging to the naked skin of his back with sweat – tsunade had said the sweats were normal. he would soak in the bath in the morning, maybe use the rose oil he had always saved for after … after the kind of missions that made him ache to feel clean. he was vain about his appearance, and those missions were the prize for his vanity. 

a drop of the rose oil in some hot water, and he would feel that much lighter, he thinks, curling into the down-stuffed duvets tsunade had dragged out of some linen closet to keep him warm, his arm wrapping automatically over kusanagi’s sheath.

he dreams a dream he has been having many nights before. in the dream, he has turned into a white snake, his ivory skin crystallized to pale iron scales that gleam like knives. he is coiled on the gravestone of his parents, nibbling at his own tail – the orouboros personified. 

then, the first crack. a scale falls off. he rolls. he needs to shed these knives off, and they tear at his skin as they fall. the pain is like nothing he has known before, and he has known pain. he is slick with blood. he opens a great fanged mouth, baring rows of teeth, and he screams. 

the sound of his own shrieks wakes him. his eyes fly open, soaking up what little light there is in the moon. the pain rips through his middle, and his skin is wet and slick between his thighs. 

let is be sweat, sweet kami, he prays, as he tosses the covers aside, but he knows, even before he can see – his water has broken. 

tsunade is already rushing into the room, her hair in disarray, eyes wild. her hands do not shake, and her yukata is loose, baring her naked form. behind her, dan rushes in, but she shoves him out of the doorway. 

“the baby is coming. go downstairs, get boiling water,” she instructs sharply. 

orochimaru is grateful – she understands, she has always understood. 

“it’s too early,” he whispers, his eyes wild with fear. “tsunade, it’s too early.” 

“don’t talk,” she urges. “don’t talk. breathe.” 

he closes his eyes. he opens his mouth. he will breathe. the snake on his parents’ grave sheds its skin and leaves it behind. his tainted body betrays him. 

and jiraiya isn’t there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter deals with child loss, beware

blood still stains his inner thighs as he dresses himself and pins his long tresses back. he sweeps the dark purple over his eyes, and paints his lips gold. his hands shake, so he takes a hard long hit from his ivory pipe to steel them. he wears white, mournful, and presses the jade tomoe earrings jiraiya gave him before his latest departure into the half-healed holes in his ears, and watches them catch in the light. 

he strides in a cloud of perfume and determination to sarutobi’s office, and his billowing silks effectively disguise his frame. the force of his killing intent overpowers the smell of sickness and death which clings to his very bones. 

“oh,” sarutobi whispers, comprehension dawning on him clearly and effectively. he must read it all in orochimaru’s face. or maybe tsunade has already told him. traitor.

don’t touch me, he’d screamed, after. don’t touch me, don’t look at me! witch! you didn’t save him – you didn’t save him, you liar, you said you were a healer, but you lied to me. 

so she had left him on the blood and sweat soaked sheets, as he clung to the rapidly cooling body he’d loved and lost before it could even be born. 

he’d wrapped it in his mother’s purple funeral silks, the fine kimono she had worn as they laid his father to rest. he’d gathered his things and left the senju compound like a ghost. easy to believe he’d never been there, when he’d made sure to scrub his scent from every crevice, hadn’t left so much as a leaf of the tea jiraiya stole for him behind. 

he buried the child under his mother’s oleander bushes, wrapped as it was in the silks still. so small. oh, too small by far. maybe this was for the better – what a rotten parent he would have made. his skin was steeped in the kind of touches that bought state secrets, and his hands were shaped after death. there was nothing in his mind but violence. what child could have survived growing in a body as soaked in poison as his? 

he’d straightened himself out. bathed in rose and lavender, and smoked his pipe and had his teas. and when he was painted and powdered, and armored in his silks, his violence and rage and grief at once locked tightly back into the part of himself he always locked away tight in the brief snatches of peace time, he sheathed kusanagi, and slid her in his obi, and walked across the village. 

sarutobi said “oh”, and then bowed his head, clasping the hokage hat in his aged hands. “maru. i am so sorry.” 

orochimaru tilted his head to the side. considered this man, who’s never once raised his hand to protect him, and the hollowness of his condolence. 

“danzo,” sarutobi said. “leave us.” 

dismissed, the councilman rose. his dark gaze followed orochimaru as they both moved in a complicated dance around the room, of leaving and entering. 

“maru – “ 

“don’t.” 

sarutobi let his hand drop. gazed at his student’s face, which now once again looked as though all the light had been drained from it. 

“send me away,” orochimaru said, quietly. “where i can do harm until i taste comfort.” 

sarutobi studied him, his face impassive. he magicked the anbu mask out of some mysterious fold in his robes, like orochimaru was used to seeing. 

“anbu crow. you are reinstated on active duty. we have received news that an iwagekure team is moving along a supply line from suna.” 

his look at orochimaru was significant, and that was all he needed to know. sensei, for once, was giving him a gift. was giving him revenge.   
orochimaru could already taste the blood. in her sheath, kusanagi was singing. 

“when do i start?” 

when jiraiya returns from his postament in kiri, there is no orochimaru, and no baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so, it seems this story has come to its swift end. i may add to it eventually, and delve into moer aspects of canon - dan's death, the sannin in ame... idk. but for now, this is the last chapter.


End file.
